It Turns out That My Partner Isn’t “The One”

I remember all the details of my wedding: the soft lace dress I’d loved instantly before I’d ever tried it on; the red roses that were so important to me to include; the reception hall I stayed up all night decorating the evening before. But mostly, I remember the unbearably cold March wind that left myself and all my bridesmaids shivering violently during our outside, lakeside photos.

I think that coldness stayed with me that whole day, beyond the pictures and all through our distant and unaffectionate reception that my husband and I cut out of early. It stayed with me even as I slipped under the scalding bath water when we arrived home later that night, our car full of gifts but our hearts strangely empty. I cried in the tub then; maybe it was the hormones my unexpected twin pregnancy was firing off in my system, but it felt more like a massive sense of uncertainty and disappointment.

I loved my husband then, and I love him even more now as my friend and the father of my children. I don’t blame him for things happening the way that they did—how could I, when I think of all those nights he slept on a hospital floor during my pre-term labor, or how he held a vomit tray for me during my cesarean, or the fact that he embraced fatherhood better than any other dad I have known? I was so scared of breaking my tiny babies that for a while after they were born I rarely touched them. My husband, on the other hand, changed every hospital diaper for at least the first month that we were in the NICU. He was the primary bath-giver to our girls, tenderly soaping their skin folds that were limp and wrinkled rather than plump, and taped the palm-sized preemie diapers over their fragile forms.

He is such a good man, full of warmth, and kindness, and patience, and loves our children unconditionally. But he’s not The One.

I wish he could have been. I tried for years to make him into my person or to make myself his. He was my best friend, but as a romantic partner it was always so hard. However, I couldn’t give up, so instead I gave up the things that I believed in. I tried to change myself to fit the marriage, but my mind and body resisted so fiercely; I found that I was at war with my instincts, fighting against my very being. Depression sunk in, and while I smiled so hard on the outside, on the inside I was drowning. I asked myself endlessly, “Is this all there is?”

Though I went back to school, spent more time with friends and family, exercised, endlessly tried to self-improve, and read and read and read and prayed and prayed and prayed, nothing could prevent my slow slide into misery and monotony. I began to have anxiety attacks of which I could never properly identify the origin. My marriage felt like a tumor, slowly but surely suffocating me, a snuffer closing in on my flame. Or maybe it was consuming me a bit at a time—it’s hard to say really, except that I was undeniably disappearing.

At first I thought this was because I got married when I was twenty-two, but age is just a number. The root cause really breaks down to the fact that I had almost no schooling, no real work experience, no travel experience, no real life experience to speak of when I decided who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. When I got married, I didn’t even know how to drive—my independence was an illusion, and I was happy to accept it. But I’ve grown since then, grown so much that for years I’ve been pushing the binds of my marriage, constantly rearranging myself to find a comfortable position (and never really succeeding).

And even though we’ve finally decided to end it, that doesn’t mean I’m relieved of the pain. I’m heartbroken, and especially disillusioned, a feeling that drives like a freight train right into your guts and keeps coming, each car a new and separate blow.

But I see the light. Or more specifically, I see this rainbow explosion of happy emojis bursting and firing sparkly joy shrapnel all over my future. I know it’s coming, and I know one day I’ll wake up and feel like I’m finally in the right place at the right time, exactly where I’m intended to be.

A day where instead of wondering, “Is this all there is?” I’ll think, “This is what it’s all about.”

Sydney Hutt

Sydney is an English major and future high school teacher from a suburb outside of Vancouver. She loves the romantic poets, gothic horror, and long runs in the rain. Most of the time, you can find her desperately trying to finish a mug of tea while chasing after her three year old identical twin girls.

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